


Three Days After Christmas

by eyra



Series: Steady, Unchanging [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also: fashion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, But still porn, Labradors, M/M, Mostly porn, Oral Sex, POV Simon Snow, Pitch Manor, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Simon loves a flamboyant shirt, Trans Character, Trans Simon, Trans Simon Snow, Watford Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 09:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyra/pseuds/eyra
Summary: I’m meant to tell him immediately if I start to feel a bit lightheaded. I didn’t, one time when he was at my wrist, and the panic in his eyes when he resurfaced to see me blinking dazedly up at the ceiling almost broke my heart. But I do leave it as late as I dare; I like the spacey feeling of being drained just a little too much, sometimes. It feels like I’m floating.





	Three Days After Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a companion piece to my other fic, “Steady, Unchanging” – it almost works as a standalone, but it’ll make much more sense if you read the other one first!
> 
> Also, this is just porn. Thank you.

Baz nudges me lightly in the shoulder as we walk together down the long, dark-panelled corridor, and I laugh when I stumble slightly on the worn green carpet. His ancestors look down on us disapprovingly from their oil paintings lining the narrow hallway, their austere faces so familiar to me yet in such stark contrast to the grin Baz throws my way as he turns the corner towards his room.

Pitch Manor is a rabbit warren of corridors and staircases, locked doors leading to more passageways all clad in the same oppressive wood panelling, the only light at this time of day the watery winter sun shining weakly through the occasional leaded window, straining to reach the gloomy corners of the manor’s ancient rooms. Baz’s bedroom is little different; a creaking, imposing four-poster bed with carved pillars and a solid, ornate headboard. Tapestries line the walls, exquisite threadwork that must be worth thousands, tens of thousands even; bizarre, but better than more oil-painted Pitch forefathers watching us as we sleep. The floor is a polished, dark wood, softened only by a large, ornately-embroidered rug, the corner of which I trip on, still laughing, as Baz crowds me into the room and kicks the heavy oak door closed behind us with a resounding bang that echoes down the endless hallway outside.

“Your family adore me,” I laugh against Baz’s lips, his cold hands hooking under the shoulders of the olive green, velvet suit jacket he’d loaned me for lunch.

He hums.

“They’re terrible judges of character.”

I’d been as surprised as Baz when, not two days into our winter break, Daphne had invited me into the village with her to pick up treats for Christmas Eve, and by dinnertime the next day his tiny twin siblings had been using me as a climbing frame in the parlour as Baz watched on in baffled amusement. Even his father has tolerated my presence with a degree of, if not genuine warmth, at least a polite sort of accommodation. The whole thing has been such a nice surprise; a Christmas miracle, if you like.

When Baz had first asked me back to Hampshire for the holidays I’d grinned, shaken my head and told him to stop being an idiot. There were so many reasons why this should’ve been a disaster, and the prospect of another Christmas alone at Watford hadn’t seemed so bad at the start of the month, but after a week at Baz’s isolated, sprawling country estate, I’m about ready to swear fealty to the Pitches if I can only stay for one more Sunday roast and another night in Baz’s plush, palatial four-poster, sinking into the feather duvet among silk sheets and rich, embroidered counterpanes. It’s such a far cry from the egg and chips and metal bunks of every boys’ home in Britain that I’d expected to feel uncomfortably out of place for the whole stay, but the life and lodgings of a young country gent suit me, apparently, much to my surprise and low-level sense of betrayal of where I come from, which definitely isn’t here. That doesn’t seem to matter too much, though, when I’m decked out in a too-big wax parka and a pair of Baz’s eye-wateringly expensive boots and Baz is blushing when I catch him staring at me across the gardens.

The velvet jacket from lunch is now on the oak floor, which I know must be stressing Baz out, but fortunately he’s preoccupied with the buttons on my dress shirt. It’s a showy thing; a great white blouse with gold cufflinks and some sort of ruffle where the top button should be. I hate it. I kind of love it, too.

“What is this?” I’d said flatly when Baz had offered it to me from the depths of his towering armoire, and he’d snapped at me to _“Just put it on”_, and something about his father liking everyone to look “nice” at Sunday lunch.

I eyed the ruffles.

“Ok, but there’s nice, and then there’s like… seventeenth century gay Italian nobleman.”

He was having none of it; I wore the ridiculous shirt. He makes quick work of it now, and slips his hands past the soft, expensive fabric, pushing it from my shoulders. I hiss slightly at the cold touch, my own hands coming up to pluck frantically at the lapels of his blazer, which he quickly shrugs off and flings artfully behind himself onto a low chaise-longue. So neat, always.

“Didn’t we say we’d meet Daphne outside for a dog walk after lunch?” I mumble against his lips, twisting out of my shirt when Baz tugs at it, his clever fingers now working on the brass button of my slacks.

“She can wait.”

I grin, and allow myself to be steered backwards until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the four-poster, and then Baz is crowding over me and laying me out on the faded green throw. I toe my shoes off carelessly, and he tugs my trousers and underwear down in one go until I’m laid out bare for him on the bed, the weak, December afternoon light painting us both in a milky glow as Baz holds himself above me. In another time, or with someone else, I would've cringed; probably covered myself without thinking, mortified by the scrutiny. But it's _Baz_. Baz, and his adoring gaze and his praising words and his clever, gentle kisses, and I feel my breath quickening as he draws his eyes down my body and takes me in. He’s still clothed, save for the blazer, and I reach up to languidly tug on his shirt collar until he’s coming down to me, meeting me in a slow, deep kiss.

He bears over me, hitching me up the bed a little so my head is resting on one of his plush feather pillows, and my legs part to allow him to settle between them as he trails slow kisses down my jaw, down the side of my neck, until he’s drawing lazy patterns around my nipple with his tongue. I grasp loosely at his dark hair as I watch him. My breathing, and the quiet, wet sounds Baz is making against my skin are the only noises in the cavernous room; even the birds outside are quiet today, or else the cold, winter fog is so thick their song can’t reach the leaded windows of Pitch Manor. I let out a soft moan when Baz moves lower, across my stomach and veering left down my thigh until he’s settled there, between my open legs, pressing teasing kisses against my skin as I clutch tightly at his hair.

“Baz,” I whisper, my voice already tellingly unsteady, and he looks up to meet me, his eyes burning into mine.

I don’t even have to say anything.

“Sure?” he murmurs, his breathing almost as ragged as my own.

I nod, eagerly, smiling down at him, then lay back on the pillow as I feel him move away to reach for my bag at the foot of the bed. He returns seconds later, and I look up just in time to see him flick open our penknife, his tongue darting out to run along his bottom lip. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.

“Go on,” I urge him, shifting my hips slightly as I feel my pulse quicken in anticipation. He smiles at me, a steadying hand running down my leg, and I watch hungrily as he brings the small blade to the soft skin of my left inner thigh.

He had been so against this when I’d first suggested it. Paper cuts and “accidental” nicks were one thing, and I knew he was battling with himself about that already and I knew he needed constant reassurance from me that it was ok, that I wanted it, _needed _it even, and eventually that seemed to calm him and he stopped hesitating whenever I offered him a finger pricked on a splinter, or a palm carelessly caught on a letter-opener (thank Merlin for Baz’s aristocratic upbringing that he still owns a _letter-opener_). But when I’d come back from a day in town with Penny and shown him the small, pocket penknife I’d got in a jewellers that afternoon, he’d clenched his jaw and frowned and told me in no uncertain terms that I should stop being an idiot. It took weeks of pestering for him to try it, and even then, in the early days, he wouldn’t hold the knife; just watch, clearly warring with himself, whilst I ran the silver blade carefully down one side of my inner wrist. It was November before I was able to coax the knife into his own hands, and I knew I was being sneaky and manipulative but I knew that _he_ knew that as well, and I may be able to get the upper hand sometimes but Baz knows himself, and he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t really want to, so I didn’t feel too bad about it.

He’d actually been shaking the first time I slowly guided the knife, in his hands, towards the pad of my thumb. He’d frowned as he pressed the blade against me, and his frown only deepened when I couldn’t stop the wince slipping out as the metal split my skin and a thick, red drop of blood squeezed its way out to the surface. He didn’t seem to mind so much, however, when I slipped my thumb between his parted lips, and had him lay his head on my chest, and stroked his soft hair whilst he suckled on me. By the time I asked him to try it on my inner thigh, most of his hesitance seemed to have evaporated – or at least been locked away safely somewhere.

I moan, loudly, when I feel the blade pierce my skin now, and then I bite down hard on my bottom lip when I remember where we are and how noise travels down those echoing, cavernous hallways. I hear Baz chuckle quietly, and I bite down again when he slowly makes a second, shallow cut next to the first. Both my hands are fisted tight in the soft sheets, my toes curling against Baz’s sides as he leans in, squeezing at my thigh gently. I feel his cool breath against the newly-opened cuts, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch him lean in and latch on to my skin. He sucks, and I’m in heaven.

“_Fuck_, Baz,” I pant, collapsing back onto the pillow and fisting one hand tightly in Baz’s hair. He tongues at me, greedily, and my hips rock of their own accord, desperate for more; more contact, more sensation, more anything. More _Baz_.

He feeds from me for a long moment, me swallowing hard and panting and screwing my eyes shut at the pleasure as I tug at his hair, guiding him and coaxing him on and I’m meant to tell him, immediately, if I start to feel a bit lightheaded. I didn’t, one time when he was at my wrist, and the panic in his eyes when he resurfaced to see me blinking dazedly up at the ceiling almost broke my heart. But I do leave it as late as I dare; I like the spacey feeling of being drained just a little too much sometimes. It feels like I’m floating.

I wait five seconds longer than I should, then I lazily tug at Baz’s hair, and he comes off straightaway and laves gently at the twin cuts with his tongue. He’ll spell them closed, later; Merlin, if this whole thing hasn’t done wonders for Baz’s anatomical spell work, because I don’t have one single scar from this yet.

I smile down at him, my fingers lazily playing in his hair, and I can tell from his expression that he knows I’ve pushed my luck this time. He shakes his head minutely; but he’s not really annoyed. I grin back.

“So naughty,” he whispers around retracting fangs, trailing kisses up my thigh, past the cuts and stopping agonizingly close to between my legs. My toes curl into the counterpane, my chest rising and falling heavily as my hips rock slightly towards him.

“Please, Baz,” I plead softly, my voice ragged again, and he must be done with teasing because I feel, a moment later, his tongue, running a slow, promising trail upwards before he presses himself insistently between my legs and mouths at me in earnest.

I can’t stop the needy moan that escapes me then, and both hands reach down to grasp tightly at his dark hair, my breath catching in my throat as he increases his pressure and does such clever things with his tongue.

_Clever Baz._

My toes are tingling by the time he presses two cold fingers to my entrance, and I moan again as he slips them inside carefully, scissoring gently and curling them upwards to tease a spot that makes me see stars. He’s still mouthing at me hungrily, and I let him until it’s just on the brink of too much, _too good_, then I’m tugging wordlessly at his hair again, pulling him up to meet me in an open, messy kiss. I taste myself on his lips, and his fingers are wet when he brings both hands up to cup my face.

I hum against him, parting my legs wider to give him space to settle as my hands reach down to fumble awkwardly with the button on his trousers. I can feel the expensive fabric tenting against me, and I tug them open greedily, taking him in my hand and running my thumb along the head of him. He gasps into my mouth, and I smile.

“Hello,” I whisper, still grinning, as I run my hand slowly up and down the hard, cool length of him, and within moments he’s trembling as he holds himself above me and breaks our kiss to look down between us, watching my ministrations. We stay like that for a moment, both watching, and then he’s reaching behind himself, out of sight, to come back with a small packet he must’ve grabbed when he went for the knife. I take it from him and tear it open with my teeth (mostly because it’s a terrible cliché and it always make him roll his eyes in the most attractive way), then I’m smoothing it down onto him as he watches. There’s a spell for it, we’re sure, but we don’t quite trust the biology of it; we’re not sure there’s a precedent for any of this. We don’t know if Baz can even make children, but it’s better safe than sorry.

His breath catches when I stroke him again, firmly, and then he presses his face into the crook of my neck, panting against me as I slowly guide him inside me. I gasp when he bottoms out, and I bring my legs up to pull him in further, filling me completely. He holds still whilst I close my eyes, giving myself a moment to get used to it, and then he’s peppering sweet kisses along my jaw and running his thumb in slow, firm circles over one of my nipples.

“Go on,” I whisper after a moment, rocking gently against him, and we moan in unison when he pulls out, almost entirely, then pushes back in to set a steady, insistent rhythm. I clutch at his shoulders through his shirt, panting against him, and within moments the old, towering bed is creaking around us as his pace picks up and he drives into me in earnest. He knows I love this; slow and steady is lovely sometimes – always, actually – but when he’s fed from me neither of us are ever in the mood to draw things out, and the sharp thrust of his hips against me, inside me, makes me go dizzy in the most exquisite way.

He does slow, after a minute, and I’m momentarily lost – Baz never needs to take a break or catch his breath – until I feel him slip a hand between us and rub firmly at me, his fingers still wet from being inside me. He presses down, rocking his hips so slowly, moving torturously, and it’s all I can do to keep bloody quiet when he’s doing such maddening things. It’s too much, too overwhelming, and I feel myself begin to tighten around him; my thighs tense, and the fingers that are fisted in his hair pull, and then he’s drawing his hand away and moving his hips again, setting a punishing pace that has the four-poster knocking lewdly against the tapestry wall.

I grin, even as my eyes screw shut with need. _So close_.

“You bastard,” I pant, clutching at his shirt, and when I look up he’s grinning back at me like the devil he is, his hair falling in his eyes. He leans down, catching my lips in a fierce, deep kiss, and then he’s driving home desperately. I’m so close; he angles his hips to hammer against that spot inside me, bringing me higher and higher, until I’m clenching tightly around him and panting his name against his ear and seeing stars, everywhere. It’s heaven. I hear him whispering to me, sweet things, breathless things, and I hold him as if I might fall apart otherwise as he ruts into me again and again and it’s too much, too sensitive as I come down, but I can’t let go. He’s seizing against me then, pulsing inside me and pressing his face insistently into the crook of my neck as he finishes. I still don’t let go, even as his hips slow, and then I wrap my legs tightly around him and draw him deeper, gently squeezing around him, working the last of his pleasure from him as I card my fingers through his damp hair. He kisses my jaw, and we whisper to each other dazedly; things that we won’t remember a few minutes from now, things that are barely heard, things that are always true.

_“I love you. I love you. I love you.”_

There’s a knock at the door.

“Boys,” I hear Daphne call from the hallway. “Are you still wanting to go on this dog walk?”

I feel Baz sag against me.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

I think I snort with laughter.

“Yep,” I call, because Baz has clearly given up, and I try my hardest to sound like I didn’t just get fucked senseless in the ancestral home and like their heir apparent isn’t still inside me. “Be down in a sec.”

We hear her leave, mercifully, and I release Baz, bringing my legs down to the mattress. He pulls out of me slowly, and I wince slightly at the loss. He notices, of course.

“Are you alright?” he says softly, holding himself still above me as he looks down in concern.

“Yeah,” I smile, still catching my breath. “Just kind of intense.”

He knows what I mean, and he knows it’s not a bad thing, and he nods as he sits back and busies himself with healing the twin cuts on my thigh. I’d almost forgotten about them, in all honesty, but he’s murmuring something softly, unprompted, and I feel a warm, soothing glow spread across my skin as the wounds start knitting themselves back together. I don’t have to look to know that there’ll be no mark there.

The magic does its work and subsides and I feel, in its place, cool lips press a soft kiss to the newly-repaired skin, and Merlin if I don’t melt at that.

We swap doe-eyed, bashful smiles as we clean ourselves and dress; or rather, I dress, with Baz’s help, and Baz just buttons his trousers back up and retrieves his neatly-tossed blazer from the chaise-longue. He does something clever with the bed, muttering words to banish the creases and the rumpled sheets and the damp spot I must’ve left on the counterpane, and then we’re wandering back down the corridor and through the gallery and down the sweeping, stone staircase, nudging each other and chatting quietly and being soft the whole way. He tugs a tweed flat cap down over my curls in the boot room, Daphne’s black Labrador bouncing at our feet, and I blush when he tells me I look cute and gives me a quiet peck on the cheek.

“Why do you insist on dressing me up like such a fucking Tory?” I murmur as we head outside into the grey, winter fog, the ground frozen and hard beneath our booted feet, but my petulance lacks conviction. I like the outfit.

He looks back over his shoulder at me, and winks.

“When in Rome.”

I scowl.

I love him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments are lovely! x


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